


Risks

by Acacia Carter (xaandria)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Kink, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, PIV Sex, Self-Shaming, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaandria/pseuds/Acacia%20Carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neville knew he wasn't normal. He knew he shouldn't want - <em>this</em>, whatever <em>this</em> was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Risks

The Gryffindor common room was silent in the way that old spaces get in the heart of night. Even the crackling flames in the grate had gone to sleep, shimmering in deep oranges and reds amongst the black and grey charcoals. The darkness was thick and soft, and slipping through it, ever so slowly and quietly like a whisper of a secret, was Neville Longbottom.

He sank into a chair in the corner of the room, one of the few spaces where he had a good vantage point of both the portrait hole and the stairs to the dormitories, and simply sat for a few moments. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing slightly heavier than the trip down from the fifth-year dormitory could really account for, and he was shaking just slightly. Satisfied that he was alone, he let out a shuddering sigh, reached down, and pulled his half-rigid cock from his pyjama bottoms, bringing it to full hardness with a few sure strokes as he closed his eyes and canted his head back to rest against the back of the chair.

He'd never done this down here before. All the small noises that made their homes in the silence of the common room were different to the noises in the dormitory, impacting against his senses like shards of glass that made him jump and his eyes fly open for a second. But the slivers of anxiety didn't seem to concern him; rather the contrary, they made his hand move just slightly faster over his shaft, his breathing stutter in tiny unvoiced moans.

He did not want to get caught, exactly. He definitely didn't want anyone seeing him doing this, or knowing he did it; the reality of someone walking in on him as he pulled himself off would be terrifyingly humiliating. But the notion of it - the notion that he _could_ get caught... that was what had driven him down here tonight. The dormitory was too binary: either the curtains of the four-poster bed were open, ensuring that he'd be discovered, or they were closed, granting him the unspoken rule of complete privacy that had been established right around third year, when all the normal boys wanted complete privacy for this sort of thing.

Because Neville knew he wasn't normal. He knew he shouldn't want - _this_ , whatever _this_ was. Once he'd finished and cleaned up he'd undoubtedly spend the entire day drawing his shame about him like an uncomfortable jumper, worn only because it belonged to him and he deserved the discomfort. But right now, during this moment as his muscles tensed and he toppled inexorably over the brink, biting his lip and shuddering with the effort of staying as quiet as possible - right now, fuck, he didn't care if he was weird or perverted or any of the other labels he'd apply to himself during the rest of the day. Right now there was the thrill of being in the precarious situation of risk of discovery, in the goddamn common room, why hadn't he thought of this before, it was brilliant - and he bit down hard enough to draw blood and let escape a tiny whimper as he came.

His heart slowly stopped pounding in his ears; the flush of heat evaporated from his skin. He opened his eyes, flickers of guilt already kindling in his gut, and drew his wand to clean up the mess he'd made.

By the time he was back in his bed, drawing his sheets over his shoulder for a few more hours of sleep, he hated himself.

* * *

Before too long, he was pushing the boundaries.

The common room at two in the morning was one thing. Yes, there was always a chance that someone would wake from a nightmare and wander downstairs, but otherwise, it was safe; in fact, it was nearly as safe as his bed with the curtains drawn. And so he began lingering in his chair in the corner, delaying until there was the slightest tinge of brightness to the sky outside the window, sometimes even until he could hear the creaking of the pipes as the students upstairs began their showers. He'd had more than a few close calls - some of them so close he'd been shaken and jumpy the whole day - but they did not deter him. If anything, they made him bolder.

It was an addiction, like a drug. He recognised that. He understood, on some level, that what was once exciting was becoming dull and so he was seeking another, new high, something novel, something that would give him that thrill again. Which was why, as everyone around him in the Great Hall scribbled about goblin rebellions during their O.W.L. exams, he palmed himself slowly through his robes, feverishly careful to keep his face composed and his breathing even.

He hadn't planned on it: he'd entered the Hall frantically trying to remember complicated goblin names and obscure dates just like everyone else, but the prospect had hatched as he realised how surrounded he was by people who were paying absolutely no attention to him. And because of the magical anti-cheating measures, even the examination committee was doing little more than staring emptily into space.

Biting the inside of his lip, Neville closed his eyes for a bare moment, the fingers of his left hand tightening around his quill. He'd written everything he could remember anyway; it wasn't as though he'd ever be able to get anything better than a Dreadful whether he paid the exam proper mind or not, and someone being less than three feet from his elbow who didn't even know what he was doing made him feel as though every inch of his flesh was afire. His cock demanded more, aching in urgency, but he did not change his movements: slow, barely pressing, teasing himself, the warm coil of release tightening deep in his belly -

Three rows over and two down, Harry suddenly shouted and fell from his chair. The unexpected tumult of other students looking up, rising from their chairs, heads turning and people talking abruptly plucked at the delicious tension he'd been building. He couldn't help it - his breath left him in an audible whoosh as the unexpected orgasm tore through him, a hot, sticky mess that soaked through his pants and seeped into the front of his robes. Even before he could start worrying about Harry, who was thrashing about on the floor, the tendrils of shame started to twine about him. _What the fuck do you think you're doing? Are you just sick? Did you seriously just get off by wanking in the middle of the fucking Great Hall?_

 _What is_ wrong _with you?_

* * *

Perhaps if he could ignore it, it would go away. He'd grow out of it. For a time he stopped bringing himself off altogether, in hopes that his urges would dissipate and he could be normal and just think about sneaking girls into his bed behind the curtains. That was normal, right? Not these fantasies about pressing himself against or into some faceless female form in a supply cupboard in the back of a classroom, her biting his shoulder in an attempt to stay quiet and not alert the class they were hiding from...

He rose from the bench in the Great Hall and made his way carefully to the bathrooms, fist clenched in the front of his robes to hide his erection. Going to the bathroom to wank was normal behaviour, he was certain. And fantasising was all well and good, so long as he didn't act on the fantasies. He was sixteen, of course he was going to think about sex practically every waking moment. There was nothing wrong with that.

But he couldn't bring himself to go into a stall and lock the door. Ears straining to detect anyone about to open the door, he leaned over one of the sinks, supporting himself with his right hand while his left worked his length furiously beneath his robes. It had been weeks since he'd done more than just wash himself, and it was not long before he spilt over his hand and sagged against the sink, gasping.

_You are disgusting, Longbottom._

* * *

Everything was going to hell.

He hardly had any time to think anymore, at least not about anything that wasn't related to food supplies or the next guerilla strike against the Carrows and Snape. It had been so long since he'd had a proper sleep, and more students were joining his band of resistance in the Room of Requirement every day and he didn't know what to do with them all. They'd come to him, inexplicably, and he had to keep them safe while still fighting back -

It dawned on him one Saturday morning that this was where he was channelling all his risk-taking. He rarely let anyone leave him behind on the little coups against the Death Eaters; he led them himself. And, if he was truly honest with himself, he did get off on it - he was usually just too exhausted to do anything about it.

One night while Neville lay on his pallet closest to the door, in his half-doze he had grown so accustomed to, he felt someone sit down beside him.

"Romilda," he whispered once he recognised her, not wanting to wake anyone else as he pushed himself up. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," she whispered back, then, tearful, "No. No, I'm - Neville, I'm terrified. They're going to find us, I know they are."

She was crying. One was supposed to do something when girls were crying, right? Hold them or something? Neville had no idea. He hadn't even touched a girl since dancing with Ginny at the Yule Ball years ago, terrified that he'd do something abnormal or sick, but _\- dammit, you don't just let a girl sit there and cry._

He reached out and put his arm around her, surprised to find himself shaking, and was astonished when she flung herself at his chest and began sobbing in earnest.

Oh dear god, he should not be having this reaction. She was crying, for fuck's sake, he should be showing her some modicum of respect, not getting hard at record speed. "Shh," he whispered into her hair, rubbing her shoulder. "It's going to be all right. You'll see. They're not going to find us. They can't. I've got this room locked down. Everything will be fine."

Desperation is a powerful force; it could cause people to do strange things they wouldn't do normally, and everyone taking refuge in the Room of Requirement had some measure of desperation looming over them at all times. That had to be the only reason why Romilda lifted her head to look into Neville's eyes, and why she then reached up to touch his face. His heart skipped a beat and the words he had been about to say died on his tongue, and for lack of anything better to do, he leaned down and kissed her.

She tasted of salty tears and vanilla lip balm and she kissed back, fervently, as though he were her lifeline. Her fingers skated over his jawline, his neck, and he brought a hand up to run through her hair as they reclined back, not breaking away from each others' lips, tongues now lapping out hesitantly before growing bolder.

Romilda pressed herself to him and he felt his world go fuzzy for a moment as she brushed against his cock - in pyjama bottoms there was no hiding how hard he was or how much he wanted her, and to his amazement she pressed against him again. Not just pressed, but rubbed herself against him, prompting a similar answering movement from his hips that made her shudder.

He wanted nothing more than to take his time, explore her, strip her down and taste every inch of her. He was likely to be killed soon anyway, they all were, and she seemed willing and hadn't made a single sound of protest against their surroundings. His cock gave a little jump as he realised that latter fact, as it came crashing back into his senses that not only were they literally inches away from other sleeping bodies, _she didn't seem to care_.

He rolled from his side so he was almost atop her, holding himself up on one elbow, breaking the kiss at last to catch his breath. "Gods help me, I want you," he found himself whispering, not caring how it sounded, not caring that five minutes ago he'd had to rake his mind for her name.

"I want you too," she whispered back as she reached up and dragged him back down, snatching her lips against his. Neville decided that it was very difficult to be a bad kisser when one was this aroused - his body had more or less taken over and knew what to do.

"Can I - can we -" His hand was at her hip and he wanted to trace the crease where her thighs met her body, trace it inward and feel her. Dip his fingers into her wetness and tease her before settling atop her -

"What, here? Now?" Some of the breathy desperation had left her whisper. "With all these people? What if... what if someone wakes up?"

Something very like disappointment clenched in Neville's stomach. "Isn't that part of the fun? The what if?"

He knew her answer before he even saw it in her eyes. Of course it wasn't part of the fun. _This isn't something done in the presence of other people, you freak._

"Could... maybe you could ask the room to give us some privacy?" Romilda ventured.

He could. He knew he could. If he willed it, the Room would spawn an entire side suite like it had the bathroom, and it wouldn't let anyone else in. He could take her there and they could spend the entire night indulging in the basest of instincts, proving to one another that they were alive. Someone might see them disappearing into the room, but no one would know, and no one would be able to bother them.

Neville licked his lips, his mouth very dry. "It doesn't work like that."

Romilda looked crestfallen. "Maybe... we could go somewhere..."

He wanted her. He could have her.

But she wanted nothing to do with him, or at least she wouldn't once she discovered his perversion wasn't just a suggestion made in a moment of lust.

"No," he forced himself to say, pushing himself back to sit on his haunches, one forearm across his lap to hide his tented pyjamas. "No, it's - it's a terrible idea. I'm sorry. This just - it isn't a good time. And being scared is a horrible reason to do what we almost just did." _And because I've been lying to you ever since you looked at me like I had two heads for not wanting privacy._

To his astonishment, she did not break away angrily, but once more pulled him down to the pallet. "Hold me, then," she said. "Just hold me."

* * *

They dated for a week before she told him he was "emotionally unavailable," which was a phrase she'd probably read in Witch Weekly and was probably true. He couldn't make himself grow close to her without divulging that what he really wanted to do was fuck her silently against the wall while the rest of the students around them were asleep, and in the end it was a very good thing that she stopped sharing his bed and that they had never got around to having sex at all.

The night they broke up he pulled himself off beneath his bedsheets for the first time, surrounded by students, remembering how two years ago masturbating with just the four other fifth-year boys in the dormitory had seemed too risky to be exciting.

He wasn't going to make the same mistake again. Trying to get someone else to understand would only leave him hurt and her disgusted.

* * *

He was twenty-two years old before he became resigned to the fact that he was not going to grow out of it.

If anything, it had got even worse. No longer in the presence of dozens of students at all times, privacy practically forced upon him by the sudden emergence into adulthood, he found himself toeing lines that would land him in much more than detention. He was always careful - studiously careful, because the fact remained that he did not want to get caught.

After a nearly disastrous incident on his nineteenth birthday, he swore off alcohol - lowered inhibitions were the worst possible things to add to his abnormal proclivities. He had hollowly laughed it off as having had far too much to drink, but his neck would burn whenever his friends brought it up as an example of how much of a party animal he was. Not something they would expect of shy, unassuming Neville Longbottom, they would tease, and he did not have to pretend to be embarrassed, though he did have to pretend that he was laughing with them. It was not long before he started making excuses to not go out with them, instead spending his time shut away in his flat.

He tried so hard to be good. He would go months convincing himself that he was that ideal that he called "normal". He stayed at home and looked at pornographic magazines to get off. He could control himself, goddammit. And after so long tamping down every stray thought, he'd go out to reward himself, perhaps try to chat up a pretty girl. These outings always ended up with him in a bathroom or employee-only cupboard, cursing himself for backsliding even as he came with more enthusiasm than he could recall from his last lapse.

He did not get a job, after he realised that one of the fantasies that played at the back of his mind was remarkably similar to the reality he'd lived through during his O.W.L. exams, except at a desk in the middle of an office floor. He'd dreamt it once, vividly and with such detail that he was jolted awake by his own orgasm. That was, possibly, the lowest he ever got; he'd stayed inside, leaving only to buy food, for months, and he could not face his reflection in the mirror.

However, one does not just decide to not have friends anymore, and his friends worried about him. After a veritable deluge of owls on his twenty-third birthday begging to take him somewhere, he finally relented, if only to keep them from bothering him more. They wanted to take him to the Leaky Cauldron. He reminded them that he did not drink, and they assured him that they would not make him.

Which was why, at ten minutes after ten in the evening, he was sitting at a table in the middle of the pub, surrounded by his friends from school who were all at various levels of inebriation, wishing fervently that he was anywhere but here. Harry had pulled Ginny onto his lap and Ginny was resting her head on Harry's shoulder. Neville tried not to look too hard at them. Not that they'd notice; they were currently inhabiting that special world that lovers do, that he'd seen happen to far too many other people.

"You look tense, Longbottom."

Neville jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Hannah," he said by way of greeting. He'd seen her behind the bar, but since he of course had ordered nothing, hadn't spoken to her. Why she'd come over this way was a mystery, unless she was just checking to see if she could offer the table another round.

But no. Her hands slipped to either side of his neck and fingers began kneading, causing gooseflesh to ripple down his back and arms and a grunt escape his lips before he could even think about it. "You can stop that in about ten years," he mumbled, letting his eyes slide half shut and rolling his shoulders.

"It might take that long," Hannah said, running her thumb along one rope of muscle into his hairline. He shivered, and not just because of the dull stab of pleasure he felt in his groin. "I think your knots have knots." She ran her thumb along the muscle again and Neville made himself take a deep breath. This was going to get out of hand very quickly. He needed to stop her.

"Hannah, do you fondle all your patrons?" Hermione asked in an amused tone.

"No," Hannah responded, and she must have made a face because everyone around the table laughed. Neville was about to pull away when he felt her hair tickling his ear - she'd leaned in close. "Only the ones I wouldn't mind taking home," she whispered, and before he even had time to register her words she'd straightened and sauntered back to her place behind the bar.

His friends hadn't heard her last words; Harry and Ron and Ginny were talking animatedly about Quidditch now, Hermione doing her best to look as though she were following along. Neville could still feel where Hannah's hands had been, imagined he could still feel her fingers there, and the flush at the words she had whispered had travelled all the way round his body and was settling in deep in his belly. He could already feel his cock pressing against the denim of his jeans, just from his reaction to her initial touch, but as her words took on actual meaning it pulsed and twitched until it was all he could do to not reach down and adjust himself.

"I'll be right back," he said faintly, shoving a hand in his pocket as he stood in a vain attempt to hide his arousal. Harry waved to indicate that he'd been heard, but did not stop talking about the merits of the newest Chaser on the Holyhead Harpies.

Neville was familiar with the bathrooms at The Leaky Cauldron. Very familiar, in fact. It did not take long at all before he ascertained that they were blessedly empty and he undid his fly, releasing his erection and grasping it desperately. So he was a pervert. Did it really matter? He wasn't hurting anybody, and it wasn't as though he was going to stand there and keep wanking if someone walked in -

The doorknob turned. Neville froze.

The door swung inward and panic suffused him like ice water as he frantically tried to shove his cock back in his jeans. He stared at the floor, his mind trying to come up with a story, any story, some kind of excuse -

"I thought as much."

Neville's head jerked upwards without his permission to see Hannah standing in front of him, her arms crossed, grinning smugly.

It took him a moment to find his voice, which meant that the sound his zip made as he pulled it up seemed to echo throughout the tiled bathroom. "I - I am so sorry -"

"No you're not." She sounded amused. Neville realised his mouth was open and he snapped it shut, only to have it fall open again as Hannah took a step nearer. Much nearer; he could feel the heat radiating off of her, and this close, he could see that her pupils were blown wide. He jumped as she reached out and ran a hand down his chest, ending by threading her fingers through one of his belt loops.

She tugged. "This way."

Intrigue got the better of him, and it was also remarkably difficult to resist being dragged somewhere by the belt loop. But she was taking him out of the bathroom, back into the main taproom and that was the last place he wanted to be right now -

Hannah steered him into a wall, relinquishing her hold on his jeans but pinning him there with her body. He swallowed, fighting the unbearable urge to roll his hips into hers. She studied him for a moment before reaching up to brush a stray lock of fringe out of his eyes. "So what is it with you? Do you like public places? Having people watching?"

"I - I - no," he sputtered. "No, I -"

"Nobody can see us right now," she continued, tracing her fingers along his jawline, back to his ear and the nape of his neck. "We can do just about anything."

Neville was about to point out that they were in the middle of a very busy pub and undoubtedly someone would see them eventually, until he noticed that the noise of the pub was... muted, somehow, and it almost appeared as though a smoky film wafted between them and the rest of the room.

"Notice-Me-Not Charm," Hannah murmured. "I have to say it's probably my favourite. Oh, people can _see_ us - but they won't _notice_ us."

Licking his lips, Neville finally found his ability to string more than two words together. "I don't understand. What...?"

"I heard you," Hannah said simply, her hands going down to work at his belt buckle. "In the Room of Requirement, with Romilda. Nearly six years ago, was it? I didn't even know myself then, but hearing your voice, all deep and husky, asking for her right there..." She shivered, which did very interesting things to his cock. "If I knew then what I know now, I swear to God I would have pulled you over to my bed that night." She'd undone his belt and was working on the button and zip.

Bewilderment and disbelief were quickly being overrun by insatiable desire. "Knew what?"

His jeans fell around his ankles and without hesitating for even a moment, Hannah took him in hand and began stroking, not tearing her eyes away from Neville's for an instant. "The 'what if someone sees' is the best part."

It was as though those words had opened a floodgate in him. His arms, which had been hanging uselessly at his sides, suddenly wrapped around her and he was kissing her, hungrily, dragging his teeth along her lower lip before attacking her mouth with his tongue again. Her fervour more than equalled his; she could not keep stroking, pressed against him like she was, but just the pressure of her hand was enough to send his senses spiralling.

"So I'm not - this isn't - weird?" Neville asked, breathlessly, in a lower timbre than he'd heard from himself in an exceptionally long time.

"Of course it's weird," Hannah said, reaching between them to grab the hem of her skirt and hike it up, revealing that she'd either planned this very well or had opted to not wear knickers today - he found that he really did not care which. "Sex is weird and makes you vulnerable and it's terrifying as shit, especially when you think you're doing it wrong." Going up on her tiptoes for a moment, she deftly positioned Neville's cock between her legs so that she could slide along his length, not taking him inside her but teasing. Neville's eyes rolled back and he let his head fall against the wall, revelling in the slick, hot sensation, twitching his hips forward, craving the wet friction. "But there isn't a wrong way to do it," Hannah continued, breathless herself now as she rolled her hips in time with his. "Tell me, do you think we're doing it wrong? Right now?"

In answer, Neville flipped her against the wall, changing places with her so quickly that they did not miss a single thrust, did not break their rhythm. He could spend all day doing just this, with the muffled babble of the pub behind him, but just then Hannah shifted and his next thrust lined up exactly perfectly and he slid inside her with hardly any resistance at all.

"Fuck!" He held himself still, forehead resting against the wall, gripping Hannah's hips tightly to keep them from moving.

"Shh." She snaked a hand up the back of his shirt, drawing her fingers along his lower spine. "The charm has an upper limit. Too loud and someone's bound to notice something."

Neville was unable to stifle the moan that her words tore from him. "God, Hannah - you're going to make me come just from that -"

"Oh, so is that it?" Her voice was throaty and pulsed with lust. "You like to almost get caught. Am I right?"

Neville pulled himself almost all the way out of her before pushing in again, slowly, relishing the sensation and gritting his teeth against the tight, hot coil that warned him of how close he truly was. "I don't even know anymore. I don't know what I am. But fuck, whatever this is - I _want_ it."

"Then take it." Hannah clenched around his cock, nearly making him lose all control right then and there. "God, Neville - you have no idea how much - how long I've wanted this."

Taking a deep breath, trying to pull himself under control, Neville started a slow, steady rhythm, much slower than he used when he was pulling himself off, but he didn't want to come yet, he wanted to just be here and feel. Feel and know that, if he turned around, he'd see the crowd in the pub and know that all that stood between them and discovery was Hannah's charm.

As though reading his mind, Hannah raked her fingers through his hair, fingernails against his scalp in a way that shot straight down his spine. "So close," she whispered. "You've got me so close... you'd best be careful, I might lose... lose my concentration... and then what might happen to the..." She apparently gave up on words as she convulsed suddenly, muscles fluttering and contracting around his cock as she gasped against his shoulder.

As if that weren't enough to drive him over the edge of control, abandoning his measured pace and simply burying himself in her as deep as he could go, as fast as he could, the muted sound of the crowd behind him began to wax and wane as though the charm itself was wavering. "Don't you dare," he gasped, thrusting with every other word, "Don't you dare let that charm fall." He'd never been at someone else's complete mercy before; the knowledge that at any moment she could just let the charm drop did nearly as much as the faint involuntary squeezes around his cock as she rode the last waves of her climax.

"Shall I drop it then?" she whispered in his ear. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Suddenly everyone seeing what you're doing to me -"

He must have said something as he came, but it couldn't have been words. Straight from his spine it flew from him, jolt after hot jolt that made him throw back his head, eyes clenched tightly shut, knees shaking as he emptied himself of what felt like years of suppression and guilt. He pumped his hips a few more times halfheartedly before he pulled out of her and threw himself against the wall, needing to be back against something solid, sliding down it until he was sitting on the floor. He panted, hands on his knees, blinking the stars out of his vision, before he realised Hannah had sunk down to the floor next to him.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Neville laughed weakly. "I just lost my virginity in the middle of a crowded pub to the barmaid. I'm bloody fantastic."

* * *

None of his friends could deny the remarkable change that Hannah wrought in him, though the means by which the change had come about was a complete mystery to them. Neville did not bother trying to explain that, for the first time in his life, he did not feel like a freak, or a pervert, or a sicko. He didn't feel normal, either, whatever that was supposed to be. He felt like himself.

They were married a year later.

When he and Hannah disappeared from their wedding reception for three-quarters of an hour, everyone suspected what they'd gone to do - but no one suspected that they were doing it right there in the reception hall, under a Notice-Me-Not Charm that Neville had cast himself.


End file.
